


In Dreams

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Foxtrot [82]
Category: First Monday, Sisters (1991 TV), Stargate Atlantis, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, not actually RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 23:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a comment_fic prompt for Rodney's tag to Doppelgänger. He asks John what he really dreams about. Set season 4 of SGA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams

They were sitting on the pier (their pier, or so John liked to think of it), drinking beers and once again contemplating doom and gloom averted. Rodney was a hero, had saved the day by taking on the monster with John's face. John knew he'd been taking a big damn risk, linking his mind with Rodney's, but they'd been in Rodney's mind, not his. Otherwise Rodney wouldn't have had to ask: "What do you normally dream about?"  
  
John dreamed about too many things to accurately describe them in a single sentence.  
  
He dreamed about his mother's funeral, wearing that stiff black suit and the shirt with the starched white collar and trying not to cry with all those people watching.  
  
He dreamed about being thirteen years old and finally taller than his mother so, for the first time, he could stand between her and his father when his father raised his hand to her.  
  
He dreamed about being sixteen years old and curled on the locker room floor, screaming and screaming because they'd broken his leg and he'd never get to dance again, never get to walk again.  
  
He dreamed of a world with no light, a world that was sounds and feels and smells, the steady swish of his cane and the first time the Braille under his fingers translated into music.  
  
He dreamed of drinking bitter cough syrup and choking on it and spilling it everywhere and shrugging into a clean shirt just in time for _her_ to show up.  
  
He dreamed of the taste of chocolate sundae, the familiar click and glide of the front door unlocking, and the strange, coppery smell in the air when he went to say good evening to his father and the way his father was so, so still in the leather chair he sat in to see patients, and the way his father's brains were all over the floor, and his mother screaming, _You bastard._  
  
He dreamed of sweating palms and and stinging eyes and his heart racing as they called time on the bar exam because he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't fail.  
  
He dreamed of walking into an old warehouse, unarmed, hands up, and asking a psychopath to release a child.  
  
He dreamed of flower petals strewn on a path leading to a gazebo strung with twinkling lights, a dozen red roses and getting down on one knee and offering Nancy a beautiful ring.  
  
He dreamed of shooting Colonel Sumner.  
  
He dreamed of Todd sucking the life out of him.  
  
He dreamed of laying down in a chair and never getting back up.  
  
He said, "Surfing, sometimes. Flying, a lot. No clowns, though."


End file.
